


Paths Not Taken

by CescaLR



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Meetings, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, can't have a potter without his wheezy I always say, prompted by Quora of all places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-28 06:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20421545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Can't have a Potter without his Wheezy, I always say.-----------------Various alternate ways Harry and Ron could have met. Each chapter is standalone, like a 5 + 1 fic but without a set end goal.





	1. Three Weeks, All Told.

**Author's Note:**

> https://qr.ae/TWyrvx -> first chapter basically ripped from my answer on this question, on Quora; 'If Harry didn’t befriend Ron on the way to Hogwarts in the first book, how would the story have changed?'.
> 
> Basically: I can't bear to rip Harry and Ron apart, so... alternate ways they could have met.

  * Harry’s first few days at Hogwarts had been… well. A bit of a strain, maybe. He’d sat alone on the train until ‘Malfoy, Draco Malfoy’ showed up, and then he’d insinuated himself where he hadn’t been wanted - and sure, he’d left at some point, and Harry had also met a Hermione Granger - whirlwind of a know it all, that one - and a rather nervous Neville Longbottom, but… nobody had sat down with him.
  * It’d been. Lonely.
  * Harry’d had a bit of trouble, walking around. He hadn’t known just how famous he was, really - even with Hermione Granger telling him about the books she’d read with him in them, he hadn’t really thought… but whenever Harry’s just walking to class, everyone’s staring, and it’s like in Little Whinging all over again. There are eyes on Harry, and he’s not got anyone to watch his back.
  * There are whipsers in the halls. Harry hears them. He’s mysterious, a loner, above them all, above it all, but he’s not. He’s eleven, and he’s never had any friends.
  * People notice.
  * It’s Hogwarts. Of course they do.
  * One Gryffindor, a fifth year prefect, one of the girls, helps him with his homework. It’s a friday, and she’s very kind to him, which Harry isn’t used to.
  * One Ravenclaw drags him to the library and drops a pile of books in his arms. On the front cover of one is a red-haired young woman, no older than twenty-one, and a man that looks just like Harry.
  * This is the first time he sees his parents. (He spends a lot of time looking at that book.)
  * A Hufflepuff sneaks him to the kitchens. She gets nervous in big crowds and doesn’t feel safe, talking to people, feels jittery and scared and anxious, so she eats in the kitchens because the elves are nice and don’t expect anything from her.
  * Harry weighs the pros and cons, of being seen to not come to breakfast, to lunch or tea, and decides he’d rather avoid the stares. It’s not like he’s talking to anyone, anyway. They’re all too nervous; them, and him.
  * It takes about three weeks, all told.
  * Harry’s sitting in the common room, way past curfew, but he’s not tired enough to sleep. He’s been getting up at the normal time and doing his homework because he’s got nothing better to do, nothing else to do, and Harry’s wondering if Stonewall would have been that bad, really, because at least there people don’t worship the ground he walks on like he ever did anything _special._
  * He didn’t. His parents died and he didn’t, that’s just dumb luck. Bad luck, really, because now he’s an orphan and his Aunt and Uncle hate him and he has no friends to speak of and no privacy to his name. Literally. Some of the books the Ravenclaw gave him were fiction, his likeness - eerily similar - staring back at him with an expression Harry’s seen on Dudley’s pig-like visage, but never on his own.
  * More of a Malfoy expression than a Harry one, really. Harry threw those books out, and hasn’t been to the library since, because he thinks Pince might actually kill him if she finds out.
  * (It doesn’t matter, really, because Harry just asks that nice Hufflepuff girl who showed him the kitchens, the one he eats with on occasion, and she gets the books he needs for class, if he makes sure nobody follows her.)
  * Anyway.
  * Harry’s there, in the common room, sitting curled up, dwarfed in one of the armchairs.
  * This is why Ron doesn’t notice him, because really, Harry Potter at eleven years old was a very small person indeed.
  * Ron jumps in his skin, a bit, when he sees Harry - out of surprise and awkwardness and _oh look, it’s the saviour of our world in a chair in the dark on his own._
  * Ron relights the fireplace, very used to having to do this back home, and the crackle of the logs is loud in the dark room.
  * (During the day, the deep reds and golds are warm and inviting. At night, when the lights are dim, they invite the shadows in.)
  * “Sorry,” Harry says.
  * “S’okay,” Ron replies, awkwardly. He’s staring, because of course he is - there’s a celebrity on the chair not five steps away from the fireplace where Ron’s crouched - who wouldn’t be a bit dumbstruck?
  * “Stop _staring,” _Harry snaps. “I’m _tired _of people s_taring.”_
  * Ron’s ears burn red, and he looks away, spots a chess set and immediately moves to distract himself.
  * “Sorry,” Ron says, his turn now.
  * “S’okay,” Harry replies, echoing.
  * There’s a pause. Harry sits, stares at the fire, and Ron sets up the chess game.
  * Harry jolts when a pawn is brutally smashed, then blinks. “I didn’t know they did that,” He says.
  * “Wizard Chess,” Ron says. “It’s - common enough. What, were you - raised by muggles, or something?” Ron asks.
  * “Yeah.” Harry says, defensively.
  * “Oh,” Ron says. “Oh, well, I guess people treating you like you should know all this stuff…”
  * “Isn’t fun,” Harry says, gloomily.
  * Ron looks at the kid, this boy his own age, and can’t see a legendary hero. In the dark, his hair hides his scar, and he’s just - small and scared and _lonely._
  * “You want to try?” Ron asks. “It’s all voice, so, you just say where you want them to go…”
  * Pause.
  * “Sure,” Harry says.
  * (And that’s how they become friends.)


	2. Another Boy Who Lived, Version 1.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Lily and James Potter lived on would Harry still meet Ron?
> 
> Version one: 'lived on' taken very pedantically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get two versions of this that are vaguely identical because I misread a quora question... hahahha oops

** _It was a cold, dark night, that evening. It was November Fifth, 1981, and Godric’s Hollow was sleeping, the festivities of the night dwindling down - only occasionally could a firework be heard going off in the distance._ **

_ Remember remember the fifth of November - Gunpowder, treason, and plot. I know of no reason that gunpowder treason should ever be forgot! _

Lily Potter sighed, softly, as she rolled her neck. Her Husband of two years, James Charlus Potter, was upstairs, softly rocking their son to sleep. After he’d heard the muggle folk verse about this night, he’d never let go of it - James had found it unendingly hilarious that so many children’s rhymes were so dark. It was a similarity between their worlds that he rather enjoyed, and Lily saw no harm in it.

Lily took the kettle off the boil, and poured water into her mug, accioed the tea box and dropped in a bag. She stirred it, absently, with her wand, as she stared out the window over the sink. The war had been over for days, now, at this point, and she couldn’t quite believe it, still. It didn’t help that there was no body, that the Death Eaters were still at large - there was a tenseness in the air, once the festivities had died down, that had yet to dissipate. Bellatrix Lestrange and many of the other inner circle were still running about causing all manner of trouble, and the Order was still doing their part in stopping said trouble from spilling over into pain and torment - so, to Lily Potter, it still felt very much like the war was raging on.

Cut off the head of the Hydra, and two more grow in it’s place, and all.

Lily sighed, placed her wand on the counter then lifted her mug to her lips, took three slow, consider sips. The street outside the living room window was dark and empty and deserted, and Lily saw no reason to worry too much tonight. The house was under Fidelius, and Peter was in Ireland, with his mother. Sirius was up in Scotland with the rest of the Order, and Remus…

Lily sighed. Remus was the only one she should really be worried about. They hadn’t heard much of him since Dumbledore had put him on werewolf duty - undercover work. It wasn’t pleasant, but then, that was war. Lily tucked her hair behind her ear, then wandered aimlessly into the living room.

It was a quiet night, and she was complacent.

At the end of the street, there was a  _ crack.  _ A woman, with scraggly dark black hair and a ghostly pallor stood, deep black robes and hallow eyes very fitting with the atmosphere of the night. At her side was a man, portly and beady-eyed, with sandy hair and a cornered expression.

“There,” He pointed, hand shaking. “That’s where they live.”

The woman cackled. “Ring the doorbell, Wormtail.”

Peter shuddered, beady little eyes trained on her outstretched wand, and did as requested.

Lily opened the door.

“Peter,” She said, a smile dawning on her face - and then, something in her eyes, shocked and horrified, a warning on her lips -

“Avada Kedavra!” The dark-haired lady snarled, eyes alight with something deranged, and Lily Potter fell to the floor, eyes unseeing before she hit the ground. Peter whimpered, tensed, and stepped back - but he didn’t leave; Peter Pettigrew turned into a rat, and scampered into the house. He followed Bellatrix Lestrange up the staircase, close at heel, but safely hidden from her ire. The two Death Eaters made their way upstairs, towards the back of the house.

“Jamsie baby,” Bellatrix cooed, though she wasn’t much older than either of the Potters, “Little Potter! Come out come out, wherever you are!”

There was a thud, and Bellatrix snarled. She threw open every door, stalked through the house like a woman on a mission, the deranged look in her eyes only growing stronger with each empty room.

The door to the nursery opened. Bellatrix grinned, perfect teeth grinding together unpleasantly.

“Bellatrix,” James said, voice devoid of humour.

Peter squeaked. James’ eyes flicked towards him, hidden under the hallway table, and something cold came over his expression.

“Peter,” He added. Peter furrowed further into the dark shadows, hiding against the wall as much as he could manage.

“Shall we play, Jamie?” Bellatrix giggled. “I’d love to play.” Her tone grew darker, her expression more crazed. “My master should have picked  _ you!” _

“You’ve lost, Lestrange,” James said.

Bellatrix cackled. “Tell that to your wifey, Jamsie,” She grinned again, sharp and horrible. “Or to her  _ corpse.” _

James went stock still, just for a second, only a second… and that was her chance.

“Crucio!” She yelled out, then cackled madly as he crumpled to the floor. “Crucio!” She repeated, shrill, and then shriller, a snarl overtaking her beautiful features, making them cruel, and terrible. She was a woman with great power and greater insanity, and Peter Pettigrew pushed himself further into the wall. His small rat body shuddered as he watched his friend of ten years convulse on the floor, and his fear grew to as yet unreached levels as the man’s eyes rolled up into his head, the pain grew so intolerable that his screams cut off in his throat. Bellatrix kept screaming.

Peter couldn’t take it any more.

“Avada Kedavra!” Bellatrix screamed, as Peter transformed back to human behind her.

“Diffindo,” He said, very quietly. Bellatrix dropped to the floor, neck severed, very dead, and Peter turned back to a rat. He fled, fled into the night, fled into the wider world, and was never seen or heard from again.

It took twelve hours for anyone to turn up at the property. Remus Lupin had just been retrieved from where he’d been hidden, undercover, finally made aware of the end of the war. He was here to celebrate.

Celebration was not what was accomplished.

Remus walked up to the door, found Lily - and broke down.

** _Ten years later;_ **

Harry Potter had spent the last ten years - or at least, as much of that time as he could recall - waiting for the day he could go to Hogwarts. He’d grown up with so many stories about the place that he just couldn’t wait to see it - friends and adventures and quidditch and, most importantly of all,  _ magic.  _ Of course, he had magic in his day-to-day life, but it just wasn’t the  _ same  _ as being surrounded by it, it just wasn’t the same as being somewhere so  _ saturated  _ in it. Living in the muggle world had that effect - Harry very much  _ craved  _ the experience of living amongst the strange and surreal. He had spent one week one summer, out of necessity, with his very normal and very mundane Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and Cousin Dudley, and Harry would like very much to never have to repeat the experience ever again.

Suffice to say, he’d never taken magic for granted ever again.

“Now, remember,” Uncle Remus said, careful eyes taking in the large throng of people on the station platform, “Be careful who you talk to, Harry,” He nodded to some people he recognised, either from his own school years or from the Order. “Stay away from -”

“Malfoys, Zabinis, Crabbes and Goyles and Parkinsons, I know,” Harry said, impatiently.

Uncle Padfoot grinned, ruffled his hair. Harry withstood it, because he’d get on the train quicker that way.

“Atta boy,” Sirius said, grinning wolfishly, which was funny, because Remus was the werewolf, here. “Go on. I want to hear tales of all the pranks you pull, got it?”

Remus sighed.

Harry hoped Sirius wouldn’t be  _ too  _ disappointed. He just didn’t feel like pranking many people - of course, he might try a couple things on Malfoy, because the boy was a real prat, but Harry just didn’t see the point of it all. Besides, the school already had it’s new set of Marauders in the Weasley Twins, and Harry didn’t want to intrude. Starting a Prank War would mean having to look over his shoulders at all times, and Harry gets enough of that from Uncle Remus’  _ carefulness. _

Harry shrugged. Sirius took that as an ‘aright, sure’, and the two men helped Harry get his trunk on board the train.

“Make some friends,” Remus said, cheerfully, in hopefully a non-false way. Remus didn’t mean to be, Harry knew, but the man could be very dour at times. He tried to be otherwise for Harry’s sake, but Harry had caught him staring out the window with a sad sort of pensive look on his face one too many times to be wholly convinced.

“… you’ve got dirt on your nose, Ronnie, here-”

“- Gerroff, mum! -”

Harry glanced over at the loud conversation.

“Oh, Molly,” Remus said. “We should say hello.”

Sirius sighed, long-sufferingly. Molly and Sirius only got along so far as was necessary for two people on the same side in a war, but they didn’t agree with each other’s ‘parenting tactics’, as Remus had once tactfully put it.

“Fine,” Sirius said. Harry had met the Weasleys in passing a few times, but he didn’t know them very well. He had to live in the muggle world for a while, until everything died down, and this was the first year he’d be back in the wizarding world. If you could count the first couple of years of life in hiding as being in the wizarding world, which Harry did not, for the record.

He couldn’t  _ wait  _ for Flying Class, and Quidditch next year. The few times he’d gotten to try out a broom or play a match of friendly chaser-chaser-keeper (not really Quidditch, because there was no snitch and no beaters and no quaffle and only one keeper) with his uncles, well, he’d loved it, to put it lightly. To be honest, the thing Harry was most looking forward to was the ability to fly a broom whenever he wanted.

“Come on, Prongslet,” Sirius said, “Friendly chit-chat time,” He continued, steering Harry in the direction of the Weasley brood.

The three of them approached the Weasleys. Molly got a pinched look on her face when she saw Sirius, a friendlier look on her face when she saw Remus (but of course, there was that friendly wariness that most people who knew about the werewolf thing had in the backs of their eyes) and a warm expression when she looked down at Harry.

“Harry dear,” She said, warmly. “Remus. Sirius,” She smiled at them, but mostly at Harry.

“Hello,” Harry said.

Ginny Weasley, the youngest of the redheads, waved at him awkwardly, then hid behind her mother. Ron grimace-nodded, that thing you do to people you don’t know well, and Harry gave a similar expression back. They hadn’t really had a chance to speak, before, Harry and the other Weasley kids. He knew of them, mostly from Sirius and Remus talking about the Order members and  _ how things are going with them now the war’s over (and all that rot),  _ so what Harry knew was mostly hearsay.

Nobody said much about Ron, now that he thought about it. ‘Nice kid,’ ‘Good at chess’. That’s all Harry knew about Ron Weasley. He could write an essay on the Twins, mostly because Uncle Padfoot was very happy someone was carrying on  _ The Legacy,  _ and those two idolised him and the other Marauders (Remus got this twinkle in his eyes when that came up in conversation, so Harry knew he felt the same; as much as he outwardly disapproved, it was all only in jest), Percy Weasley was his mother’s pride and joy, so she mentioned him in most conversations, and Harry got a lot of that through his Uncles talking about what happened that day and yadda yadda, you know - and Bill and Charlie were common topics for Mrs Weasley, because they were so successful in such dangerous jobs, and Ginny was the youngest and a girl, so Molly talked about her nearly as much as she complained about the twins.

But Ron? Harry had the dawning realisation that he knew next-to-nothing about Ron, whereas he felt like he could write a biography for the rest of the family.

Huh.

Harry was herded onto the train when the whistle went, after awkwardly standing around and shuffling his feet as the adults talked about this-and-that. He found himself standing in a cabin with Ron Weasley, and then realised they’d been awkwardly staring at each other after the Twins had rushed off to go see their friend Lee about a tarantula.

Harry sat down. Ron blinked, and sat down across from him.

“So,” Ron started, and stopped.

“So,” Harry echoed.

(And that was how they met.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four more days counts as 'lived on' right? Yeah sure we'll go with that


	3. Another Boy Who Lived, Version 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Lily and James Potter lived on would Harry still meet Ron?
> 
> 'lived on' but it's more akin to how Neville's parents 'lived on' because I'm cruel and stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here you go! Two ficlets for the price of one.
> 
> Though, I suppose, they’re much the same (which was my point, but I digress. Anyway -). Some other things to note:
> 
> \- Snape never switched sides, because he convinced Voldy to go after Neville’s family instead (less convinced and more, Voldy just made a different decision on who to target, and Snape’s little comments were a small factor)  
\- Slughorn is still Slytherin’s potion’s teacher and head of house  
\- and really that’s all that’s different from canon on that front  
\- Harry’s still a Gryff, so is Ron  
\- He was raised by a few people, because Remus doesn’t live with them (he has wolfsbane he's just stubborn and paranoid) and Sirius being a hit wizard has to move around a lot for a lot of missions so Harry stays with Safe People but I can’t figure out who  
\- Neville obviously now the Boy Who Lived so that’s the biggest change but I couldn’t find a way to factor that in with the question since it’s about how harry met ron not anything to do with neville sorry boo I'll give you more screen time next time

** _It was a cold, dark night, that evening. It was November Fifth, 1981, and Godric’s Hollow was sleeping, the festivities of the night dwindling down - only occasionally could a firework be heard going off in the distance._ **

_ Remember remember the fifth of November - Gunpowder, treason, and plot. I know of no reason that gunpowder treason should ever be forgot! _

Lily Potter sighed, softly, as she rolled her neck, loosening the stiffness in her bones. Her Husband of two years, James Charlus Potter, was upstairs, softly rocking their son to sleep. After he’d heard the muggle folk verse about this night, he’d never let go of it - James had found it unendingly hilarious that so many children’s rhymes were so dark. It was a similarity between their worlds that he rather enjoyed, and Lily saw no harm in it.

Lily took the kettle off the boil, and poured water into her mug, accioed the tea box and dropped in a bag. She stirred it, absently, with her wand, as she stared out the window over the sink. The war had been over for days, now, at this point, and she couldn’t quite believe it, still. It didn’t help that there was no body, that the Death Eaters were still at large - there was a tenseness in the air, once the festivities had died down, that had yet to dissipate. Bellatrix Lestrange and many of the other inner circle were still running about causing all manner of trouble, and the Order was still doing their part in stopping said trouble from spilling over into pain and torment - so, to Lily Potter, it still felt very much like the war was raging on.

Cut off the head of the Hydra, and two more grow in it’s place, and all.

Lily sighed, placed her wand on the counter then lifted her mug to her lips, took three slow, consider sips. The street outside the living room window was dark and empty and deserted, and Lily saw no reason to worry too much tonight. The house was under Fidelius, and Peter was in Ireland, with his mother. Sirius was up in Scotland with the rest of the Order, and Remus…

Lily sighed. Remus was the only one she should really be worried about. They hadn’t heard much of him since Dumbledore had put him on werewolf duty - undercover work. It wasn’t pleasant, but then, that was war. Lily tucked her hair behind her ear, then wandered aimlessly into the living room.

It was a quiet night, and she was complacent.

At the end of the street, there was a  _ crack.  _ A woman, with scraggly dark black hair and a ghostly pallor stood, deep black robes and hallow eyes very fitting with the atmosphere of the night. At her side was a man, portly and beady-eyed, with sandy hair and a cornered expression.

“There,” He pointed, hand shaking. “That’s where they live.”

The woman cackled. “Ring the doorbell, Wormtail.”

Peter shuddered, beady little eyes trained on her outstretched wand, and did as requested.

Lily opened the door.

“Peter,” She said, a smile dawning on her face - and then, something in her eyes, shocked and horrified, a warning on her lips -

“Stupefy!” The dark-haired lady snarled, eyes alight with something deranged, and Lily Potter fell to the floor, eyes closed, a loud  _ thud  _ reverberating through the house. Peter whimpered, tensed, and stepped back - but he didn’t leave; Peter Pettigrew turned into a rat, and scampered into the house. He followed Bellatrix Lestrange up the staircase, close at heel, but safely hidden from her ire. The two Death Eaters made their way upstairs, towards the back of the house.

“Jamsie baby,” Bellatrix cooed, though she wasn’t much older than either of the Potters, “Little Potter! Come out come out, wherever you are!”

There was a thud, and Bellatrix snarled. She threw open every door, stalked through the house like a woman on a mission, the deranged look in her eyes only growing stronger with each empty room.

The door to the nursery opened. Bellatrix grinned, perfect teeth grinding together unpleasantly.

“Bellatrix,” James said, voice devoid of humour.

Peter squeaked. James’ eyes flicked towards him, hidden under the hallway table, and something cold came over his expression.

“Peter,” He added. Peter furrowed further into the dark shadows, hiding against the wall as much as he could manage.

“Shall we play, Jamie?” Bellatrix giggled. “I’d love to play.” Her tone grew darker, her expression more crazed. “My master should have picked  _ you!” _

“You’ve lost, Lestrange,” James said.

Bellatrix cackled. “Tell that to your wifey, Jamsie,” She grinned again, sharp and horrible. “Or to her  _ corpse,  _ if you can, once I’m through with her… would you like to watch? _ ” _

James went stock still, just for a second, only a second… and that was her chance.

“Crucio!” She yelled out, then cackled madly as he crumpled to the floor. “Crucio!” She repeated, shrill, and then shriller, a snarl overtaking her beautiful features, making them cruel, and terrible. She was a woman with great power and greater insanity, and Peter Pettigrew pushed himself further into the wall. His small rat body shuddered as he watched his friend of ten years convulse on the floor, and his fear grew to as yet unreached levels as the man’s eyes rolled up into his head, the pain grew so intolerable that his screams cut off in his throat. Bellatrix kept screaming.

Peter couldn’t take it any more. He scampered down the stairs, towards Lily, and took pity on her.

“Obliviate,” He said, very quietly, as much power behind the spell as he could manage. If her brain was already broken, then, well, it wouldn’t hurt as much, he reasoned. Peter retreated to the kitchen, and, hands shaking, used the kettle and the open box on the counter to make himself some tea.

Throughout the night, Peter heard James’ thrashing, Bellatrix’s screaming, cackling, mad laughter reverberating through the walls of the old house. But Peter didn’t dare leave, because - because, once she was done, if he caught her unawares…

Bellatrix entered the kitchen, her eyes dereanged but… duller, somehow.

“They didn’t know,” She wailed, softly, into the tea he brewed her. Her eyes trained on him, and Peter’s self preservation instincts kicked in.

“Diffindo!” He shouted, quickly, wobbly, and bright red blood spurted from her neck. Peter turned into a rat, fled into the night, and was never seen again.

It took four hours for anyone to turn up at the property. Remus Lupin had just been retrieved from where he’d been hidden, undercover, finally made aware of the end of the war. He was here to celebrate.

Celebration was not what was accomplished.

Remus walked up to the door, found Lilly and James, alive but unresponsive - and broke down.

** _Ten years later;_ **

Harry Potter had spent the last ten years - or at least, as much of that time as he could recall - waiting for the day he could go to Hogwarts. He’d grown up with so many stories about the place that he just couldn’t wait to see it - friends and adventures and quidditch and, most importantly of all,  _ magic.  _ Of course, he had magic in his day-to-day life, but it just wasn’t the  _ same  _ as being surrounded by it, it just wasn’t the same as being somewhere so  _ saturated  _ in it. Living in the muggle world had that effect - Harry very much  _ craved  _ the experience of living amongst the strange and surreal. He had spent one week one summer, out of necessity, with his very normal and very mundane Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and Cousin Dudley, and Harry would like very much to never have to repeat the experience ever again.

Suffice to say, he’d never taken magic for granted ever again.

(There was one time - just once, when Aunt Petunia had come with them to see his mum and dad at St. Mungo’s. She’d cut off all contact, after that… but very occasionally, the mediwizards told them Lily had had a visitor, and the flowers on the windowsill changed every six months to something new. Still, every time she saw them, Petunia snarled and yelled and accused them of Satanism - despite being apathetic to religion herself - and called them freaks and monsters and  _ stay away from my family, you hear, duddykins doesn’t need to be infected with your - insanity!  _ And Vernon would bluster and fluster and go very purple and threaten them with calling the police, which Sirius found very funny, since he  _ was  _ police. Or, at least, a hit wizard for the DMLE, which was  _ like  _ being a policeman, but  _ cooler _ .)

“Now, remember,” Uncle Remus said, careful eyes taking in the large throng of people on the station platform, “Be careful who you talk to, Harry,” He nodded to some people he recognised, either from his own school years or from the Order. “Stay away from -”

“Malfoys, Zabinis, Crabbes and Goyles and Parkinsons, I know,” Harry said, impatiently.

Uncle Padfoot grinned, ruffled his hair. Harry withstood it, because he’d get on the train quicker that way.

“Atta boy,” Sirius said, grinning wolfishly, which was funny, because Remus was the werewolf, here. “Go on. I want to hear tales of all the pranks you pull, got it?”

Remus sighed. He’d muttered something about ‘Death Eaters and Blood Purists, not - oh, never mind’, but Harry didn’t pay attention to that.

Harry hoped Sirius wouldn’t be  _ too  _ disappointed. He just didn’t feel like pranking many people - of course, he might try a couple things on Malfoy, because the boy was a real prat, but Harry just didn’t see the point of it all. Besides, the school already had it’s new set of Marauders in the Weasley Twins, and Harry didn’t want to intrude. Starting a Prank War would mean having to look over his shoulders at all times, and Harry gets enough of that from Uncle Remus’  _ carefulness. _

Harry shrugged. Sirius took that as an ‘aright, sure’, and the two men helped Harry get his trunk on board the train.

“Make some friends,” Remus said, cheerfully, in hopefully a non-false way. Remus didn’t mean to be, Harry knew, but the man could be very dour at times. He tried to be otherwise for Harry’s sake, but Harry had caught him staring out the window with a sad sort of pensive look on his face one too many times to be wholly convinced.

“… you’ve got dirt on your nose, Ronnie, here-”

“- Gerroff, mum! -”

Harry glanced over at the loud conversation.

“Oh, Molly,” Remus said. “We should say hello.”

Sirius sighed, long-sufferingly. Molly and Sirius only got along so far as was necessary for two people on the same side in a war, but they didn’t agree with each other’s ‘parenting tactics’, as Remus had once tactfully put it.

“Fine,” Sirius said. Harry had met the Weasleys in passing a few times, but he didn’t know them very well. He had to live in the muggle world for a while, until everything died down, and this was the first year he’d be back in the wizarding world. If you could count the first couple of years of life in hiding as being in the wizarding world, which Harry did not, for the record.

He couldn’t  _ wait  _ for Flying Class, and Quidditch next year. The few times he’d gotten to try out a broom or play a match of friendly chaser-chaser-keeper (not really Quidditch, because there was no snitch and no beaters and no quaffle and only one keeper) with his uncles, well, he’d loved it, to put it lightly. To be honest, the thing Harry was most looking forward to was the ability to fly a broom whenever he wanted.

“Come on, Prongslet,” Sirius said, “Friendly chit-chat time,” He continued, steering Harry in the direction of the Weasley brood.

The three of them approached the Weasleys. Molly got a pinched look on her face when she saw Sirius, a friendlier look on her face when she saw Remus (but of course, there was that friendly wariness that most people who knew about the werewolf thing had in the backs of their eyes) and a warm expression when she looked down at Harry.

“Harry dear,” She said, warmly. “Remus. Sirius,” She smiled at them, but mostly at Harry.

“Hello,” Harry said.

Ginny Weasley, the youngest of the redheads, waved at him awkwardly, then hid behind her mother. Ron grimace-nodded, that thing you do to people you don’t know well, and Harry gave a similar expression back. They hadn’t really had a chance to speak, before, Harry and the other Weasley kids. He knew of them, mostly from Sirius and Remus talking about the Order members and  _ how things are going with them now the war’s over (and all that rot),  _ so what Harry knew was mostly hearsay.

Nobody said much about Ron, now that he thought about it. ‘Nice kid,’ ‘Good at chess’. That’s all Harry knew about Ron Weasley. He could write an essay on the Twins, mostly because Uncle Padfoot was very happy someone was carrying on  _ The Legacy,  _ and those two idolised him and the other Marauders (Remus got this twinkle in his eyes when that came up in conversation, so Harry knew he felt the same; as much as he outwardly disapproved, it was all only in jest), Percy Weasley was his mother’s pride and joy, so she mentioned him in most conversations, and Harry got a lot of that through his Uncles talking about what happened that day and yadda yadda, you know - and Bill and Charlie were common topics for Mrs Weasley, because they were so successful in such dangerous jobs, and Ginny was the youngest and a girl, so Molly talked about her nearly as much as she complained about the twins.

But Ron? Harry had the dawning realisation that he knew next-to-nothing about Ron, whereas he felt like he could write a biography for the rest of the family.

Huh.

Harry was herded onto the train when the whistle went, after awkwardly standing around and shuffling his feet as the adults talked about this-and-that. He found himself standing in a cabin with Ron Weasley, and then realised they’d been awkwardly staring at each other after the Twins had rushed off to go see their friend Lee about a tarantula.

Harry sat down. Ron blinked, and sat down across from him.

“So,” Ron started, and stopped.

“So,” Harry echoed.

(And that was how they met.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just post two basically identical chapters? Yes I did you can't stop me I'm four foot ten and fear no god no man and no monsters


	4. Tali.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're Harry Potter."
> 
> "Uh, yeah?" He said.
> 
> "I'm Ron." 'Ron' shoved his hand out. Harry shook it. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
> 
> "We had the same history teacher last year," Ron said.  
Harry frowned. 
> 
> "I don't remember..." Harry shook his head. "You wouldn't," Ron agreed. 
> 
> \--------------------
> 
> Or: iacta alea est.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A roll of the dice. Because non-magical people can be born to magical parents.

"You're Harry Potter."

Harry turned around.

"Uh, yeah?" He said.

"I'm Ron."

'Ron' shoved his hand out. Harry shook it. "Ron Weasley," Ron finished.

"Alright, Bond," Harry said, "Do I know you from somewhere?" "We had the same history teacher last year," Ron said.

Harry frowned.

"I don't remember..." Harry shook his head.

"You wouldn't," Ron agreed. "I was off a lot. Uh," He glanced around the store, the expression on his face one of - something like vague interest. "You work here?" He asked. Ron peered at him, like he expected to see something that wasn't there. To be fair, Harry got Lasik six months ago, and those glasses had been pretty obvious - not many people with black circular wireframes these days, if only because circles are kind of 60s.

Oh.

And the scar, but nobody at school ever saw that - ballcaps and athletic headbands, those were part and parcel of Aunt Petunia's strict 'Look Like A Normal Human' dress code.

"Yeah," Harry said, adjusting his cap awkwardly, an automatic response to the staring. "That I do. Not many places around here accept the - uh, _youthful criminal element_." Harry shrugged, tone dry.

"You're not a criminal," Ron said, thought it sounded less like a statement of fact and more like a protestation of disbelief, which was weird, because everyone in London probably knows Harry as _that kid, you know the one_, thanks to Vernon. _Well_, all of London is an exaggeration, but **still**. There's still that rumour about St. Brutus', even though Harry went to Stonewall like everyone else.

Well, most everyone.

Dudley, of course, went to Smeltings... but Big D wasn't so much of a Big D, these days. That was probably in part because Harry's standards had lowered, but some of that new-fangled school counsellor shit had gone down, and apparently Dudley was 'finding himself' through the art of punching people in the face for a cheering crowd - boxing was very good for him, apparently. It meant he punched Harry less (as in, not at all for the past four years, a real record) and, for some reason, treat Harry like an actual human being, and yes - alright, Harry's standards don't really exist. Dudley, of all people, is the only person who's ever really treated Harry like he wasn't a literal slug... after, you know, a decade of doing that and worse.

Small steps, Dud's counsellor says. Harry quite thought the whole thing was bullshit, but what did he know; Stonewall didn't exactly have the same level of student care as Smeltings.

"That's what they tell me," Harry said. "Haven't you heard? I trashed Mr O'Riley's car on Monday, and that was just awful of me, since he's a vet and all."

Ron frowned.

"My reputation isn't the best," Harry said, amused. "Are you going to buy anything, or what?"

"Oh, right," Ron said, and slapped a bar of chocolate onto the counter from the little collection hanging off of it. "One pound, please," Harry intoned in his most monotone customer service voice possible, and pressed the button to open the cash register.

The gas station he worked at was - well, a little run down and a little old, but relatively decent, since they let him work here, and Miss Benson didn't think he was the scum of the earth. She made him tea on Sundays, but that was probably because nobody else would take the Sunday shift.

"Uh," Ron said, and took out a wallet, then riffled through the coins. He took an inordinate amount of time to pick through the cash, but eventually he surfaced with a quid, and dropped it into Harry's grip - or, onto the table, but Harry caught it first; he'd always been good at that. Catching things. Wasn't necessarily a particularly useful skill, but Harry takes what he can get.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Harry said, closing the register. "Have a good day, and all that."

"Right," Ron said, awkwardly. Harry supposed he could be a little less - _Harry_, but he's found over the years it suits him just fine. Better to be a bit standoffish at first and lower the chances of people wanting to talk to him that way, because it never seemed to go well for anyone who did. When he was a kid, it was Dudley who chased everyone off, then as a tween it was his Aunt and Uncle with their rumours, and now it's... well, it's a mixture of a few things, no longer including Dudley, but including that Harry spends most of his time sitting on a swing set in an abandoned play park smoking cigarettes because... well, the Dursleys never want him in the house, and now he has a job he has to use his pay check - most of it - on the Dursleys by way of 'rent', and what's left over isn't enough for anything but copping a fag from Alex, who's the teen a couple years his junior that hangs around the back of the school. Harry's pretty sure he doesn't even go to Stonewall, but whatever.

Harry's done his O-Levels. He just has to get through this next set of shitty exams, and then he's free. Sure, university is a pipe dream, but he can get a job somewhere, and he can live _somewhere else_, far away from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. He _will_ need a little help monetarily speaking, though, so it's been a gruelling few months trying to aid Dudley's counsellors' efforts in getting Dudley to move out when he does; sharing the cost for rent would be a lot of weight off Harry's shoulders.

(As a clarification - Dudley's counsellor just wants him away from his parents - Harry doesn't know what Dudley's said about him, in his sessions, and he doesn't really want to know, either. The less they talk about shit, the better.)

Ron still had not left, Harry realised.

"Did you want something?" Harry asked, raising a pointed eyebrow. "Or did you forget where the entrance was?" "It's there," Ron gestured, absently, a frown etched deeply on his freckled face. "I do have something to tell you," He admitted, "I'm just not sure how to put it."

"No? Spit it out," Harry said, "That's usually the best tactic."

Ron slung his backpack off his shoulder, and opened it. Inside, he took out a book, or what looked like a book - but seemed more like hastily bound pages with a sticker slapped on the front for labelling.

"Here," Ron said. "Um, they're letters."

"I can see that," Harry said, taking the bound - _parchment_? What year was this, _1650?_

"They're your... parents'," Ron said. "They were - friends of friends of friends of my family."

Harry froze.

"Fuck off," He said, very calmly. "I've never heard from you before, because...?"

"Well," Ron said, "I mean, I shouldn't even be here - I..." Ron hesitated. "I just thought, you know, it wasn't fair. Just because you -" He cut himself off, pressed his lips together.

Harry frowned at him.

"Look," Ron said, He took out another book, this one properly bound; something like a photo album, Harry thought, and was proved to be right when Ron opened it, and -

They were moving.

The **pictures**.

Were _moving_.

"I just didn't think it was fair," Ron said. "Stuff about laws and regulations but - just because you're not - doesn't mean you shouldn't know, right? They were your family."

Harry picked up the book.

"This is a prank," Harry said, "What are these, little screens? What kind of tech is this?" He said, flipping the page, holding one straight out and looking at the edge, to see if he could spot any signs of - wiring, circuitry... how was this powered? - but it really looked... very convincing, if he was honest.

Harry poked the first picture - a man and a woman, dressed very nicely in somewhat odd but clearly formal attire, and if Harry squinted and tilted his head, he'd have thought the occasion might have been some kind of wedding, but he was pretty sure officiators or whatever didn't look like that, black-haired high-cheekboned grey-eyed handsome men, unless Harry had been going to the wrong Churches.

More importantly, they certainly didn't wear biker jackets over long violently red dresses and combat boots.

Ron laughed, an awkward, nervous sound - not done out of amusement, but out of discomfort.

"That's, uh, it's not technology," He said, "It's magic."

Harry snorted, loudly.

"There's no such thing," He said, because if there was, and if his parents were, why had he been stuck with the least magical people in the whole wide world for the past nearly seventeen years? He hated agreeing with Vernon Dursley on anything, but this seemed the most reasonable of his abundantly awful opinions on things. If magic existed, you'd think more people would know about it.

If his parents were magic, Harry thought, it was rather unlikely for them to have died unemployed drunkards in a car crash. Would magic people even have to drive cars? Couldn't they just teleport?

"No - It, it really is, but I can't show you here," Ron said, looking a little furtive. "It's, uh," "A secret?" Harry said, dryly, mockingly. "Sure, right, magic is real, got you. Want to pull my leg a little harder with something just a bit more believable?"

"You're looking at a moving picture!" Ron said, impatiently. This was true; Harry could not deny the moving picture. He poked it again; the inhabitants didn't seem to like that, and the faces they made were vaguely amusing.

"Fine, alright, sure," Harry said, not meaning a word of it, but going along anyway, because what else did he have to do with his day? Go 'home' and listen to the Dursleys ramble on about what fake thing he did today to piss off the neighbours? No thank you. Humouring an insane ex-classmate (probably a lie, Harry thought, disparagingly, because he'd remember the last name Weasley if only because it's kind of unusual) seems the more interesting pastime.

"Was there any real reason for this, other than upending the world of a p_oor orphan troublemaker_? Got a saviour complex up in that head of yours?" Harry asked, as he looked away from the vaguely hypnotising photo album.

The man who was marrying (maybe) the redhead looked a lot like him, Harry thought, except paler, and taller, and he had a different chin, and his eyes were hazel, not bright green. The woman's eyes were green, though. Almond-shaped. If he didn't know better, he'd say she kind of looked like Petunia, but like... all the similarities were very, _very _minor and it was just something about the shape of her nose, or the slant of her eyebrows that reminded him of his blonde aunt; everything else about them was like night and day, except for their skin tone, a sort of pasty that looked pink on Petunia and the _English Rose_ he heard in adverts on the telly for the redhead. And she was a proper redhead; not a sort of orangey-ginger like the teen standing across the counter, but a real, vivid, deep red. Harry wasn't sure if it was a natural colour, or if the woman was the bottle blonde type but with red, instead.

"No," Ron said, looking a little... Harry wasn't sure. Lost, maybe? He'd known the guy for maybe all of three minutes; he's not going to be an expert on the nuances of his facial expressions yet. Probably ever; Harry doesn't tend to repeat interactions if he can help it. Or if other people can help it. Really, the rumours just help him retreat into introverted antisocial behaviour, and that was fine by Harry. Who needs friends, anyway?

Harry.

Harry does.

The only person he can really call 'friend' is Big D, and no offense to Dudders, but that is a _horrible_ thought, because it's **Dudley**. The most friendly thing they do is sit in total silence playing co-op on Diddy-kins' playstation when Dud's parents aren't home, and sometimes when Harry is 'grounded' Dudley will sneak him a cup of tea.

They're not exactly the best of cousins, is all Harry's saying, and it's really, _really sad_ that Dudley is probably his only _'friend'_, and at least half of that pitying shitty-ness is because the guy only counts as a 'friend' on a technicality. 'Childhood Bully' or 'Tormentor' or, as he used to go by, 'Big D' are all far more apt. Because Dudley, for a very long time, was a complete arse of a human being. Like Harry's said, he's getting better, but being a violent, cruel, bullying dick is hard to get over.

"Look," Harry said. "I have a job to do, and you're holding up the line. If you want to accost me with pictures of long-dead relatives and share my own sad backstory with me, I'd love to grab some tea some time, but for now, could you - I don't know, leave?"

Ron looked behind him.

There was no line, but there was an old woman buying a bottle of wine from the cooler in the back.

Ron hastily shoved everything - including the photo album - back into his backpack. "Fine," Ron said, "I'll find you tomorrow. With tea."

"I meant that sarcastically," Harry said, but he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The old woman sent Harry a nasty glare.

"I didn't slam the door," Harry said.

She bought her alcohol, then left.

Old women were weird, but Harry had learnt this a long time ago; Arabella Figg was an odd woman who had lived on Privet Drive for a few years when he was a child, and every time he went she'd give him the same exact spiel about her dozen or so cats, from the top, no breaks, and he'd have to duitfully eat a slice of very old stale cake and drink lukewarm flat coca-cola while sitting in a house that smelt like cat food, cabbages, and old woman perfume. She wasn't the only example - plenty of old women had tried to shake his hand when he was younger at supermarkets and the like. Those were the only times Petunia rushing him around like he shouldn't be out in public seemed a little more reasonable and a little less like she hated his existence and wanted him to die. Or, at least, because Petunia thought wishing death on people was beneath her in some way, that he had never existed in the first place, never dared to have been born to her pretty, useless sister and Lily's drunken, layabout husband.

Uh.

Well.

... Going back to the topic of Arabella; Harry hadn't enjoyed those visits, suffice to say.

Harry continued with his shift until Miss Benson kicked him out when the replacement arrived, and he spent the rest of the day avoiding Number Four, Privet Drive.

* * *

"There you are." Harry jolted, dropping his cig on the floor.

"Oi," Harry said, "Don't startle a bloke like that, I could've dropped it on my thigh." Harry squashed the heel of his shoe into the cigarette butt, making sure it was put out. "What are you doing here?"

"Inviting you to tea," Ron said, tone - was he joking? Did he think that was an in-joke, now? Was Harry reading too much into this? Did Harry really care?

Hmm.

"Nah," Harry said. He swung slightly on the swing set.

"I'm good. Rain check? When are you next unavailable?"

Ron scuffed his right boot on the tarmac. "Soon," Ron said. "So I want to get this over with," He continued, firmly. "Just... follow me? After I explain this, I'll leave you alone. Promise."

Harry looked up at the heavens. Did he have the energy to bother, today? The answer appeared to be yes, but did he _want_ to bother, today? The answer to that was more solidly a **no**, however... Harry is a curious sort of person; he doesn't leave well enough alone unless _**absolutely** _required - half of the trouble he gets into, Harry admits, is of his own making, not the Dursleys' invention. The other half, though, that's just them being as creative and imaginative as possible; ironic, given Vernon's views on the matter, but it is what it is.

Regardless - Harry is curious. He is also obstinate. Those two aspects are currently warring with each other. Should he go and find out whatever this ginger stranger has to say, which will at the very least be entertainingly insane, or should Harry tell him to fuck off and go do the gardening?

... As much as Harry doesn't mind gardening much, sometimes he feels like he's going stir crazy when he does it (very occasionally he hears people talking, but it sounds weird and it's about what Harry assumes to be murder, so he's... carefully ignored it ever since it started up when he was about eleven, after going to the zoo and hallucinating a snake winking at him) so... Fine. Insane ginger instead of insane gardening.

Why not?

"Alright," Harry said. He stood. The ginger bloke - Ron, fine, _Ron_ \- grinned, pleased. It was a pleasant sort of grin. At the very least, it didn't make Harry feel like he was about to be murdered in a dark alleyway.

Ron led Harry to a dark alleyway.

"Right," Harry said, "What's your M.O.? Strangling, stabbing - shooting, maybe?"

"I'm not going to kill you," And now he sounded vaguely exasperated, which was a common reaction. "Look." Ron took out a stick.

It was... just that, by all appearances; a stick of wood, over ten inches long. Harry wondered if this was his murder weapon of choice.

"Lumos," Ron said, very clearly, some bullshit Latin sounding word and - Light. A ball of light appeared at the end of the stick. He waved it around in demonstration. The light followed.

"Cool torch," Harry said.

"Nox," Ron said. "Tempus," He said, and the time of day appeared above the stick. "Finite incantatum," He said, and it went away. "Point me north," He said, and the stick span on his open palm, facing supposedly due north. He held the stick properly again. "Avis," He said, and a fucking _bird_, followed by _another_ bird, and **another**, sprouted forth from the stick.

"Alright, sure," Harry said, looking up at the stick birds.

"Magic."

This was interesting. Was that a spark of excitement Harry felt? He couldn't get his hopes up about it, and he was sure to dwell on the fact that apparently magic still let you die in car crashes later, but for now... _Magic_.

"That's cool," Harry said, still looking at the birds.

Ron put his wand away, because it was clearly a wand, because magic is real and Ron is a **_wizard_**.

That's kind of cool.

Pretty cool, really.

"So my parents were wizards?" Harry asked. "A witch and a wizard," Ron confirmed. "Lily and James Potter."

"I know their names," Harry said, defensively. "How did you get their stuff? Letters and pictures and everything?" "I have a big family," Ron said. "We know a lot of people. And the wizarding community is... kind of insular. Small."

"No shit, Sherlock," Harry said. "My parents were magic and I didn't even know about it. My aunt's sister was magic and _she_ doesn't know about it." "She does," Ron said, off-handedly, like that wasn't an awful revelation. "I'm pretty sure. Dean's sisters do, and they're muggles - the people you live with can know, if you're muggle - uh, non-magic born. Or raised. So accidental magic doesn't weird them out all the time, you know."

"Why am I not a wizard, then?" Harry asked. "I don't know," Ron said.

"Just happens, sometimes. Called - you're a squib. Muggle born to magical parents."

"Huh," Harry said. "Well, that sucks."

Ron grimaced. "Kind of, yeah," He said. "So that's why nobody ever said anything?" Harry asked. "Because I'm not magic?"

"No," Ron said. "Uh, well, yes, but not exactly. They might have said something if your parents died - reasonably, but they didn't - they were, uh, they were murdered." Harry frowned. "My parents died in a car crash," He rebuked. "They got drunk one evening -"

"They weren't _drunks_," Ron snapped. "They were _heroes_. They were twenty-one, and they were war heroes, and they were **murdered** by You-Know-Who," He pressed his lips together, like he hadn't meant to say it like that, but Harry didn't mind, exactly; he'd rather things were just said than dragged out. Being placated and mollycoddled isn't really something he appreciates.

"So that's another for the reasons Petunia Dursley is a bitch bin," Harry said, absently. "Alright, I'll bite. Who's 'You-Know-Who?' Because, uh, being a 'squib' and all I have _no_ idea who, actually."

"Right," Ron sighed. "Yeah, uh, I can't tell you. Not because I don't want to, but because his name is - taboo. If you say it, it brings his people to your location. And that would be... very bad. For you." "For me?" Harry blinked. "Why me?"

"Well," Ron said, "Most people think you're dead."

"This is a rollercoaster," Harry commented. "Sorry," Ron said, sounding surprisingly genuine.

"The letters - and a few books, I've got them, if you want to read them."

"And?"

"And I'll leave you be," Ron said, "If you want me to. And you can ask me questions, if you want to. I'll... I need to hang around for a bit, anyway, so I'll be in the park, if you want to find me."

"You're staying in the park?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. "Nah," Ron said, grinning. "I'm staying in a tent behind some wards in a park. Muggles can't see me. I could show you, if you'd like?" "Sure," Harry said, having decided that Ron, the wizard, seems like an alright bloke, all things considered.

"Why not?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka playing around with a squib!Harry AU.
> 
> (Also, the title; I'm feeling slightly clever about it. Tali - four sided die - muggleborn, squib, pureblood, half-blood. Roulette wheel of birth. Yes, harry only had two of those options, but shush. My fanfic, I name it how I like.)


End file.
